


Premonition

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: Luke &  Han's Adventures in Intoxication [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars Episode V: Empire Strikes Back
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8187005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: Han and Luke go out drinking. It doesn't go well for them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place fairly soon after the events of _A New Hope._ It's got a sequel, too, which you can find right about [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8288519).

Han is elbow-deep in the _Falcon’s_ propulsion system in a grubby little spaceport on a dinky little planet on the outskirts of the Outer Rim when General Rieekan’s orders come over the comm, triple-encoded and rushed, rough with the sounds of a fire-fight. He’s accidentally stirred up a group of Imperial Fighters, nothing all that serious but bad enough for him to cancel the orders he’d previously given Luke to rendezvous with Red Squadron, orders Han had been honestly concerned about carrying out on time, given the _Falcon’s_ damaged systems. Rieekan instead orders Han to remain grounded, barking promises across the feed to provide updated orders once the Empire’s fighters have yet again been shaken off the Alliance’s tail, lost amongst the stars. Which isn’t good, the strain in Rieekan’s tone enough to put Han’s teeth on edge straight away, but it does mean unexpected downtime, which Han’s never going to complain about, so he gives Chewbacca the news and leaves the big guy to finish up running yet another diagnostic on the thrice-damned propulsion system while he goes out to check on Luke’s progress on the hull and give him their updated instructions.

“I was thinkin’ about going out for a bit, once the kicker’s working again,” he says after he’s twice reassured the younger man that the others will be fine, his voice light with confidence he’s still working on convincing himself to have, “if you’d like to join me.”

Luke considers the scorched metal under his gloved hand, the work still left to be done. “All right,” he says, looking back up at Han. “Let me finish up here first.”

“Sure. And don’t rush,” Han says, patting the _Falcon’s_ hull. “My girl’s worth you taking your time.”

He leaves Luke to his work and goes back to the cockpit, his mood improved enough at the thought of taking Luke out drinking that he’s only a bit annoyed to learn that the diagnostic turned up more problems in the propulsion system than he’d expected it to, all things he can fix, but still. It gives him something to do, has him well and truly ready for a drink by the time he's finishing up, Chewbacca grumbling threats against the _Falcon_ in the way he does when he needs a nap. He stops his bitching for only a minute when Luke comes in, the smudges of oil and scorch gone from his face and hands and his hair combed, takes the opportunity to pat Luke on the head, messing up his hair in the process. Luke stays still and endures, and he looks _damned_ good even after Chewbacca’s made a mess of his hair, all cleaned up in a way none of them bother to be most of the time; a blessing to Han's tired eyes.

“Anything I can help with here?” Luke says, brushing his hair out of his eyes and into some semblance of the order he’d had it in before, once Chewbacca’s finished grooming him and has gone off to be grumpy somewhere else.

“Nah, think we're good here,” Han says. “It’s been thirsty work down here, though. You still up for that drink?”

Luke nods. Han wipes his hand on his trousers and grimaces when it comes back just as dirty, if not dirtier, than before.

“Lemme clean up,” he says, “and we'll go see what this corner'a the galaxy has to offer.”

 _Not much_ is the answer to that particular curiosity, as it turns out, the spaceport populated with only a few stalls, the town beyond offering exactly one pub, and a relatively quiet, boring pub at that. It’s not the sort of establishment Han would give a second glance, normally, and it’s _definitely_ not a place Luke would normally be tempted to go, Han knows even without the Force granting him insight into the younger man’s thoughts, but it’s not awful, cleaner than the dive in Mos Eisely where he met the kid a scant year earlier, and it’s got better booze and better music and less scruffy clientele, no gunfights boiling over every few minutes; just better all around. And where the prices are steeper than he’s used to paying, especially on the Outer Rim, his expenses have been lower than normal now that he’s got the Rebellion helping him out with the cost of keeping the _Falcon_ in one piece and functioning, so he buys two drinks and sets one down in front of Luke, nudging Luke in the thigh with the back of his knuckles and ordering him to drink up when Luke doesn’t pick up his mug immediately, busy looking around like he’s some space-virgin tourist who _wants_ to get himself shot or something.

Which he is, mostly, but.

“Relax,” Han says when Luke obediently takes a sip of his drink but doesn’t stop scanning the far end of the pub, doing that weird not-blinking thing he’s been doing lately, his eyes just a shade too wide, his back rigid like he’s deep in enemy territory, not sitting at a bar in a pub in the middle of nowhere with Han at his side, both of them armed and more than capable of defending themselves if called upon to do so. “You look like you’re gonna snap, you’re so tense.”

Luke does, at least, blink, looking at Han like he’d somehow forgotten Han was there, and he puts on a show of relaxing, but he's not terribly convincing, not to Han's well-trained eye. “There's something wrong,” he says after a minute. “I can feel it.”

“If it’s a battalion of Imperial troops, you’d better drink up fast,” Han drawls, taking a long pull from his own mug. “Wouldn’t want to let a good ale go to waste.”

Luke shakes his head. “It’s not the Empire,” he says. “It’s -- intent. I think.” He shakes his head again. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

Han swallows a sigh. Luke’s a good man and a helluva pilot, not half-bad as a traveling companion or someone to have at his back in a fight, but his naivete is just more than Han can stomach sometimes. “You're just not used to places like this,” he says. “Plenty'a bad stuff goes on in pubs, and plenty more bad thinking comes up when there's booze involved. Good booze, at that, don't waste it.”

“I won't,” Luke says, but he's distracted again, distracted _still,_ maybe, his fingers caressing his glass like an absent-minded reflex. He’s a little less obvious about scanning the pub when he goes back to doing just that, but _he’s still doing it,_ so Han distracts him with a hand on Luke’s wrist and a story he doesn't need to exaggerate all _that_ much about a brawl Chewie once won in a pub not unlike the one they’re in that evening, and when he gets to the bit about hiding in the hold of the _Falcon_ despite his very full bladder and underlying desire to throw up, just to give Chewie's temper a chance to cool off, Luke actually chuckles softly, his expression warmer for it, almost sweet, all the focus and intensity he’d been dedicating to scanning the pub a scant minute before shifted to rest fully on Han, as if Han were the only sentient in the universe or something.

“Big fuzzball had the nerve to make fun'a me for it afterwards,” Han grouses, looking away because the way Luke makes him feel sometimes is more than he can handle. Much of the time. Ridiculous. “Forgets he's a seven-foot monstrosity sometimes, I think.”

“And you forget that you're only human sometimes,” Luke reminds him softly.

“Yeah, well,” Han says, distracting himself from the warmth welling up in his chest at Luke’s tone by emptying his glass and gesturing with it. “I remind him about that night every time he complains about me takin’ risks. Works most of the time.”

It doesn’t work ever, usually ends up getting him threatened with bodily harm, but Luke’s distracted again when Han looks up to see if he’s gotten away with the lie, all of the humor and warmth gone from the younger man’s expression, so Han doesn’t bother setting the record straight. He leaves Luke to do whatever Jedi thing he thinks he’s doing, grumbling _gonna go see if the conversation in the lavatory’s any more stimulating_ just to get a reaction from Luke, which it doesn’t, the kick of the drink in his bloodstream strong but not quite strong enough to help him shrug off the temper rising in his throat at Luke’s refusal to relax and be, well, _Luke_ again, maybe not the brat from Tatooine, but not the space mystic wannabe persona he’s been trying out lately.

He debates as he relieves himself if another drink’s worth the credits it’ll cost him, if it’ll help improve his mood, maybe get Luke to finish off his own drink and loosen up a little. There’s a decent stash of a good citrus-y rotgut stashed in his quarters on the _Falcon,_ nothing special but enough to get him drunk without tasting too much like regret on the way down. It isn’t the same as drinking in a pub, letting the alcohol and music and good-looking man at his side convince him, even if only for a while, that he’s not siding with some puny rebellion that’s chosen to go up against the Galactic Fucking Empire, enough to create the illusion for him that he’s just a simple smuggler, still, taking on the worlds spread across the galaxy with responsibility to no one and nothing but his ship, his co-pilot, and his personal wealth and pleasure, pleasure he’d half-hoped he might get to enjoy later on, coaxing Luke into his bunk.

Sitting around with Luke ignoring him in favor of being all Jedi-y isn’t helping with that illusion, Luke’s commitment to being mystical whenever he can as solid a reminder as a man can get that Han’s no longer just a smuggler, probably never will be again. He’s pretty well convinced himself by the time he’s leaving the lavatory to cut his losses and get drunk on the _Falcon,_ with or without Luke’s participation, and he decides that it’s _definitely_ the right choice when he comes around the corner and finds Luke speaking with a Twi’lek who’s not only taken Han’s seat during Han’s absence, but is sitting on it off-center, close enough to be in physical contact with Luke, something Luke normally avoids, save around his friends. Some of his friends. Like Han and Chewie. Leia. Sometimes Wedge. He’s not shied away from the Twi’lek’s touch, though, neither the knee resting against his or the hand on his thigh. The conversation stops abruptly the minute Han’s within earshot, which Han takes as an insult, and the fact that Luke’s cheeks are pink with what looks suspiciously like a blush is just _not_ what his temper needs, not as short as it is already. His presence (and maybe the look on his face) chase the Twi’lek away in pretty short order, at least, and Luke doesn’t seem upset by the change in company as Han reclaims his seat, though he does cast more than a few glances across the pub to the gambling table the Twi’lek’s joined, murmuring an apology when Han pointedly clears his throat.

“Gamble with your own credits if you’re going to go over there,” Han says, reaching for Luke’s glass and swallowing a mouthful of the ale Luke’s clearly not touched since Han left him. “Face like yours, you’ll lose everything in two rounds.”

“I’m not interested in gambling,” Luke says. “I just thought --” He shakes his head, blinking hard twice. “Nothing.”

Han frowns around the frankly ridiculous pang of jealousy resonating in his throat. “Thought what?”

“I sensed something strange about the Twi’lek,” Luke says. “I was trying to figure out what it was, but he left before I managed.”

“Something strange, huh?” Han says.

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

Luke shakes his head. “I don’t know. It felt like ... like the intent I could feel before, maybe. Purpose. The excitement of having a plan and putting it to action.”

Han takes another swig of Luke’s drink, the mug warping the sound of his own laughter as he does. “Yeah, that’s _definitely_ a mystery,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Stars, kid, don’t tell me you’ve never been hit on in a pub before. Face like yours, that’s gotta be a regular occurrence for you.”

“That’s not what --”

“Sure it it,” Han says. “Oldest play in the book. Pick out the biggest twink in the place and put the moves on him the minute he’s alone.” He leers at Luke, enjoying the way his words have brought the blush back to Luke’s cheeks, maybe even a shade darker than it was under the Twi’lek’s attentions. “I would’a done the same back in that grotty cantina on your homeworld if you hadn’t had the old man babysitting you, y’know. Had my eye on you the minute you walked through the door.”

Luke drops his gaze and shakes his head, and it’s probably just the alcohol in Han’s system lowering his inhibitions, but he has to consciously restrain himself from reaching out and running his fingers through Luke’s hair, the temptation to _touch_ stronger than usual, pulling at him like the need for sleep after a long run in hyperspace. He bumps Luke’s knee with the back of his knuckles instead, dragging his thumb over the curve of Luke’s kneecap as an afterthought.

“Hey,” he says, catching and holding Luke’s gaze when Luke looks up at him, licks his lips at the passing thought of renting a room for the night instead of going back to the _Falcon,_ of taking Luke with him, doing all the things to and with the younger man that he’d’ve been tempted to do back on Tatooine, had things gone differently there. “You wanna get outta here? Go someplace a little more private?”

“We probably should,” Luke says, missing Han’s attempt at innuendo completely as he slides off his barstool. He holds out a hand to help Han down, which Han laughs at and pushes away with a brush of his hand.

“Takes more’n a few drinks to make me need your help, kid,” he says, turning to drain what’s left of Luke’s drink, even though it’s gone truly warm, all the fizz gone from it. It’s alcoholic and he paid for it, and the taste isn’t appalling, not even close to the worst drink he’s ever had, so he figures it’s fine. 

What’s _not_ fine is the hand Luke places atop his lightsaber as he turns to scan the room once again, all the warmth and humor gone from his expression as he curls his fingertips tightly around the hilt, which is Wrong, puts Han on edge. Luke’s Force exercises have given him a tendency towards paranoia lately, sure, but he only puts his hand to his weapon when he’s _genuinely_ concerned about something, and where Han no more believes in the Force than he does the bogeyman from the ghost stories of his childhood, he trusts Luke’s intuition, trusts it almost as well as he trusts his own, a curl of adrenaline winding through him as he climbs to his feet, easing his hand onto the butt of his blaster as he goes. He slings his other arm around Luke’s shoulder as they walk towards the door, tossing a predatory grin in the Twi’lek’s direction as they pass the gambling table, figures it can’t hurt to make clear who’s who in Luke’s world, just in case the Twi’lek’s got any lingering doubts on the subject.

The air outside the pub is cool and vaguely damp, just a shade too thin, a mix of breathable elements probably better-suited for a species other than Han’s, his head spinning a bit from it as he walks away from the pub with Luke, following the smooth-paved road back towards the spaceport. The lights lining the street are an odd combination of too bright and not bright enough, bringing shards of headache in to mix with the dizziness from the thin night air, Han’s stomach curling around itself and rising in the threat of nausea as he walks. He starts to gripe about it to Luke, has his mouth open and complaint hot on his tongue, but the low-lit street bends and flows around him like bacta as he turns, the glow of the street-lamps dimming into a swampy black, and as the ground rushes up to meet him, the comfort of gravity wrapping around him like a shroud, he thinks he might hear his own name shouted on Luke’s voice, but the blackness overwhelms him before he can know for sure.

\---

He’s naked when he comes to, the crisp material of the medi-bunk aboard the _Falcon_ sticking unpleasantly to his skin when he tries (and fails) to sit up. He gets his right eye to open without too much difficulty and manages to get it to focus well enough to know that the shape standing over him, sliding a hand under the back of his neck to help him sit up and sip water from a rations pouch is Luke, and it’s probably just the headache threatening to split his skull in half that makes his heart-rate pick up at Luke’s touch, his thoughts curling and snarling in knots at the realization that _Luke’s_ initiating physical contact with him for once.

“Wha’happen’d t’me?” he slurs around the spout once the water’s all gone, licking his lips when Luke takes the pouch away and lowers him back down to the crunch and crinkle of the sterile bedding, unfortunately taking his hand away once Han’s settled.

“We think you were drugged,” Luke tells him, his tone gentle but his voice rough like he’s been shouting. Han squints at him, but Luke ducks away before Han can get a good look at him. “It’s good that you’re talking. That should mean that the worst is over now.”

Han tries to push himself up again and, on the third try, manages to stay up, braced against his elbows. The room dips when he moves his head too quickly, but he can make out the looming shape of Chewbacca standing in front of the door all the same, the blur of Luke busying himself with something in the medi-kit affixed to the wall opposite the bunk. A biohazard bag on the floor in the corner, slumped over itself but clearly not empty.

“‘kay,” Han says, slowly, his gaze lingering on the biohazard bag. “So why’m I naked?”

Chewbacca makes a low sound in his throat and informs Han that the way he vomited all over himself was a big indicator that he’d been, as Luke said, drugged, and that stripping him nude and wiping him down was the only way to make him bearable to be around afterwards. Which isn’t surprising and isn’t comforting, either, given that the big guy isn’t fussing at him for allegedly vomiting all over all of them. He’s acting weird just in general, keeping his distance, and --

“Why’re you _armed?”_ Han says, squinting at the bowcaster in Chewbacca’s grip, the dull metal reflecting the low light overhead. “What’d I do, go feral on you or something?”

 _You weren’t the one I was worried about_ isn’t the answer Han’s expecting and doesn’t do much to put him at ease, the sullen guilt in Luke’s expression and posture when he turns to look at the younger man bringing enough questions to his mind that his head spins with it.

“One’a’ya’d better start telling me what happened,” he says, pushing himself up and angling his hips, intent on getting out of the clammy confines of the medi-bunk, but both Luke and Chewbacca step forward to stop him before he’s managed more than a few inches of movement, Luke’s hands cool against his skin and Chewbacca’s threats to tranq him if he doesn’t hold still weaving a web of confusion that Han addresses by carrying on with what he was doing, managing at least to get his legs over the edge of the bunk before a wave of dizziness stops him, Luke’s grip on him tightening, keeping him upright.

“Careful,” Luke says.

Han snorts. “Yeah, you’re a good one to lecture on bein’ _careful.”_

“You need to rest until the drug’s effects have worn off completely,” Luke says without rising to Han’s baiting.

“Could do that better in the captain’s quarters,” Han tells him, _“after_ I’ve had a shower. Feel like I’ve been swampin’ around in that trash compactor again. Don’t tell me that’s what happened and Her Worship is lurkin’ around my ship somewhere.”

Chewbacca barks a disparaging remark about Han’s tendency to put on a tough-guy act where the princess is concerned. Luke shakes his head. “Just us,” he says. “Rest. Please.”

“Not ‘til I’ve gotten cleaned up,” Han says. “And dressed. I don’t like bein’ naked unless there’s fun to be had, and there ain’t any fun happenin’ in this room, so.”

He slides forward, pushing hard enough against Luke’s grip that his toes touch the cold metal plating of the floor before Luke’s managed to do much beyond say his name like he’s a misbehaving teenager, and it’s sheer force of will alone that makes his legs support his weight when he tests them, the medi-bunk crinkling under the death-grip he keeps on it, waiting for his equilibrium to balance. Which it does, blessedly, even when Luke unbalances him by draping a blanket over his shoulders, the younger man’s touch muted by the blanket as he wraps his arm around Han’s side, supporting him, loosening only marginally once Han’s walked past Chewbacca and out into the corridor without falling over or throwing up. He keeps his arm around Han’s waist as they make their way slowly to Han’s quarters, their steps awkward and hips bumping in the narrow passageway. Sticks around even once they’ve reached Han’s quarters, side-stepping the blanket when Han shrugs out of it, leaves it in the floor in favor of following Han into the ‘fresher, hanging around even when Han turns and raises an eyebrow at him, his nudity once again on full display.

“I’ll look away, if you want,” Luke says when he sees Han’s attempt at a lascivious grin and takes it the wrong way, his face going very pink very fast, “but I need to be close by in case you fall or faint.”

“I ain’t _complainin’,_ Luke,” Han says. “Wouldn’t mind you joinin’ me, either, if you’re interested. Make me feel less under-dressed, here.”

For one brief, _beautiful_ moment, he thinks Luke might actually take him up on the suggestion, but Luke just shakes his head and busies himself with picking up and folding the damn blanket, and where Han can usually out-stubborn any sentient in the room, the wobble in his leg-muscles and the vague dizziness hanging like vapor at the edges of his consciousness worry him enough that he dismisses Luke’s rejection with a shrug of his shoulders, focusing his energy on cleaning himself, the feel of the sonic shower on his skin decidedly less pleasant than he’d hoped it would be, for all that he feels overall better once he’s finished with it, the stench of sweat and ozone and vomit replaced with the sterile hum of freshly cleaned skin.

Luke follows him into the main part of his quarters once he’s finished showering, sticking close but not touching him again, which is a real pity, almost grounds for complaint, until Han bends down to pull a fresh set of trousers out of a storage compartment and the room shifts under him, sending him into a tumble aborted only by Luke’s hands on him, the younger man’s strength greater than Han would’ve guessed it would be, highlighting his own weakness as Luke compels him away from his clothes and into his bunk, steadfastly ignoring all of Han’s complaints about being naked still. He does at least retrieve Han’s clothes for him once Han’s seated on the edge of his bunk, his expression dark with worry as Han dresses himself and stretches out on the mattress, the lingering queasiness from whatever drugs he’s still got in his system quelled only when he rolls onto his side. It keeps his mouth shut around the objections he’d otherwise voice when Luke comes over to tuck him in like he’s a little kid or something, and even once he’s got his stomach argued back down where it belongs he doesn’t bitch about being coddled, too distracted by the marks he can see on Luke’s chest, as close as Luke is to him, the edges of Luke’s coveralls separating as he leans over Han to fuss with the blankets. Bruises too fresh to have purpled yet on Luke’s pale skin, but they’re undeniably bruises all the same. There’s a cut on Luke’s jawline too that wasn’t there before, deep red and dusty with bacta residue. An angry red abrasion stretching up from Luke’s belly, almost to his right pectoral that Han only gets to see for a moment when he gets nosy and pulls at Luke’s clothes, wanting a better look, Luke covering himself fast enough that he’s obviously intent on hiding his injuries. 

“You okay, kid?” Han says, obediently dropping his hand back to his belly when Luke straightens, hastily fastening his coveralls up to his throat.

Luke nods. “Fine,” he says. “Just worried about you.”

“Uh-huh. And the bruises?”

“Fine,” Luke says.

Han lifts an eyebrow at him. “Must’a been a helluva fight,” he prompts. “What happened?”

Luke swallows. “You don’t remember anything?”

Han shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean you can make shit up, though,” he says. “Chewie’ll tell me the truth even if he doesn’t want to. Superstitious about cosmic punishment for lying or somethin’. Part’a what makes him brutally honest. And such a good partner.”

“I’m not going to _lie_ to you,” Luke says, petulant like he was planning to do just that and can’t, now. “I was upset that you’d been drugged. There was a confrontation. Nothing serious.”

“A confrontation,” Han echoes. “You got beat up in another pub, you mean.”

 _“No,”_ Luke says, the flare of temper immediately replaced with the look of a man whose mouth’s gotten away from him. “I didn’t -- this was different.”

“Yeah, none’a my bar-fights’ve been identical,” Han says. “No fun in repetition.” He looks Luke up and down. “Looks like you won this time, at least.”

Luke shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I didn’t lose,” he says, then bolts before Han can ask him any more questions.

Which Han would mind, and mind quite a lot, at that, if he didn’t have recording feeds from all over the ship and access to those feeds from the comfort of his quarters, a handy algorithm picking Luke out among everything picked up over the hours Han missed, the younger man’s bright blonde hair and beige coveralls striking in contrast to the russet of Chewbacca’s pelt and the navy of Han’s vest and trousers, Han cradled close where Chewbacca’s carrying him down the main corridor of the ship. He switches the feed from the corridor to the medi-bay when Luke and Chewbacca disappear from the frame, watches Luke help Chewbacca arrange Han on the medi-bunk, Han’s mouth moving, the rest of him limp and flopping uselessly, totally at the mercy of Luke’s touch. Luke arranges him in a position where he’s stable and leans in close enough that, for half a heartbeat Han thinks the younger man is about to kiss him, but Luke steps away instead, his hand going to the hilt of his lightsaber, his posture squared, defensive. He argues with Chewbacca for a minute, maybe, his face angled such that Han can’t read his lips, his temper mounting a notch at the lack of sound recording, especially as he watches Luke actually _stamp his foot_ before turning to storm out of the medi-bay, halted only when Chewbacca reaches out a to restrain him, fangs visibly bared.

What follows is an actual, all-out fight, the difference in size between Chewbacca and Luke extreme enough that Han’s stomach drops, turning over itself as Chewbacca performs a series of threat-displays that work well enough to frighten Luke (and scare the hell out of Han), and because Han’s life is just never pleasant, he gets to watch Luke responding to Chewbacca’s threats not by standing down or relenting, but by drawing his his ‘saber and pointing it at Chewbacca, who doesn’t even _flinch_ from the deadly weapon before swatting it out of Luke’s hand, shoving Luke in the opposite direction when Luke turns to retrieve his ‘saber, shoves him hard enough that Luke stumbles, leaving him vulnerable enough for Chewbacca to grab him by the front of his tunic and lift him bodily all the way off the floor, Luke struggling viciously as he’s dragged out of the medi-bay and down the corridor, beyond the camera’s view.

Han swears violently and punches through the feeds, switching to the camera pointed down the corridor, granting him the view of Chewbacca’s back and Luke’s kicking feet, the wookiee stopping only once he’s reached the door to the main cargo hold, punching in the code to open the door and chucking Luke none-too-gently inside, the door slamming shut before Luke’s had a chance to make a dash for it. Han switches to the camera inside the hold, chewing his lower lip as he watches Luke pound desperately on the hold door, obviously shouting himself hoarse, the cut on his chin dripping blood down his neck. He stops after a few seconds, thankfully, rubbing at his left wrist when he does, wincing like he’s managed to damage himself in his anger. The pain isn’t enough to distract him from long, though, precious few seconds passing before he stops rubbing his wrist, his body going very still as he closes his eyes and stretches out his hands, his palms hovering just a hair’s breadth from the door. Han frowns at the image on screen, his eyes going wide as he realizes Luke’s actually trying to use the Force to open the door, his frustration when it doesn’t work equal to Han’s relief that it didn’t, the _Falcon_ as loyal and dependable as always. Luke punches the door one more time, then steps back and flops down on the floor, every inch the petulant brat Han remembers first meeting on Tatooine. He looks around, probably hoping for a way out, but stays seated, absently rubbing his left wrist with his thumb, his body shaking.

Han watches him for a moment, pity tugging at the corners of his temper at the sight of Luke so _obviously_ defeated, his emotions on full display in what he probably thought was a private space, far from anyone’s eyes, then flips through the other feeds, finding Chewbacca without too much difficulty, the big guy leaned over the bunk in the medi-bay, holding Han up while Han vomits for several minutes straight, stripping him nude and cleaning him once Han’s gone limp, his breathing obviously labored, even on the grainy feed. Han’s stomach twists at the sight of it, the discomfort eating at him of having no memory of being so sick, despite the fact that he seemed to be conscious and trying to speak from time to time throughout the ordeal.

He’s well and truly out-of-it by the time Chewbacca leaves him in the medi-bay, propped on his side and strapped down, doesn’t move a muscle in the time he’s alone, Chewbacca returning after a scant handful of minutes, armed with his bowcaster and no longer streaked with vomit. Doesn’t move in the twenty minutes after that, Chewbacca at his side, nor when Chewbacca leaves him and returns to the cargo hold, gesturing with his weapon for Luke to follow him, his posture tense and threatening. The feed from inside the hold shows Luke jumping to his feet the minute the door opens but putting both hands up in the universal sign of surrender straight away, uncharacteristically obedient as Chewbacca lets him out of the hold and herds him back to the medi-bay, standing sentinel at the door while Luke patches the cut on his face and takes the chair beside the bunk, reaching out tentatively like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch, resting his hand on Han’s upper arm.

An hour passes. Two. Han speeds the frame-rate of the feed after a few minutes of inactivity, watching Chewbacca shift his weight from one foot to the other, Luke’s hand moving fretfully, maybe petting Han’s arm. Chewbacca leaves the medi-bay after ten or so minutes and doesn’t return. Luke stays where he is, barely looking up when Chewbacca departs. He scoots his chair closer to the bed after a few minutes have elapsed, lowering his head to rest his cheek against Han’s arm, sliding his hand down to lace his fingers with Han’s after a few minutes more, and he doesn’t move from that position until Chewbacca comes back just under an hour later, and then he pushes himself away like he’s gotten caught doing something he’s not supposed to do, running his hand through his hair as he does, a nervous habit he’s developed lately that Han’s meant to fuss at him for but hasn’t because the way it makes Luke’s hair fluff is, frankly, not something Han wants to give up any time soon.

He stays at Han’s side while Chewbacca stands at the doorway, both of them watching Han like they expect him to explode or something. Luke leaps to his feet when Han stirs, his eagerness amplified by the accelerated frame-rate, and Han slows the video just in time to see Luke put his hand on Han’s chest while Chewbacca retrieves a pouch of water from the supply compartment and hands it to Luke, memory overlaying the image on the screen, Luke’s touch to the back of his neck and the cool water washing away the foul taste in his mouth, the disorientation of waking up nude on the sterile fabric of the medi-bunk.

Han punches his comlink harder than necessary once he’s sure he’s seeing footage of events his remembers, glaring at the still-running feed as Luke answers, his voice higher than usual with worry as he asks if Han’s all right. “Get down here,” Han says without answering Luke’s question. “Need to talk to you.”

The door to his quarters opens maybe half a second later, which means Luke’s been lurking close by, and it’s a testament to how much of the drug is lingering still in Han’s brain that he’s tempted to check the feeds to see where the younger man has been since he left five minutes earlier instead of just _asking._ He resists that particular urge and flops back in his bunk, gesturing for Luke to sit, pleased when Luke only hesitates a little before sitting on the edge of the bed, uncomfortable but compliant; not a bad look on him. Better than the broken, helpless man Han watched on the feeds, trapped in the hold intended for the transport of goods, never of sentient beings, and better still when the silence makes him uncomfortable enough to look away from Han’s gaze, looking instead around Han’s quarters, his gaze snagging on the video feed running still on the viewscreen on the table, blue eyes going wide as he realizes what he’s seeing, puts together the implications faster than Han’d thought he would.

“I didn’t know you had surveillance cameras,” he blurts out, focused still on the feed of himself helping Han out of the medi-bunk, Han’s nudity on full display for the few seconds it took Luke to cover him with a blanket.

“Yeah, all over the ship,” Han says. “No audio, though. Means I get to guess what was going on while I was takin’ a nap in the bone closet. I’m usually pretty good at puttin’ it all together, but I need your help this time ‘cause the feeds’re making it look like you picked a fight with a wookiee while I was out. An angry, armed, seven-foot-tall _wookiee._ But that can’t be what happened because you’re not _that_ stupid, right?” He tips his chin down, looking at Luke through his eyelashes. _“Right?”_

Luke glares at him. “I didn’t pick a fight with him,” he says.

“Oh of course not,” Han says. “Didn’t try to draw your weapon on my first mate or get your ass hauled around like a sack’a loot and chucked into the main hold for an hour either. _Or_ try to Jedi down the hold door -- did you actually think that would _work,_ or were you just desperate?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, but Luke at least has the decency to not cover the hurt plain in his expression fast enough for Han to miss it, the scowl he pulls over his features so like the posturing of a wounded animal that guilt squeezes up Han’s throat. He pushes himself forward fast enough to get his hand on Luke’s elbow when Luke mutters _I’m not listening to this_ and tries to leave, and where Luke has no trouble shaking him off, he _does_ stop when Han says his name and tries to get up to stop him from leaving, but he only stops because Han’s legs decide to give out on him, and it’s probably just because Luke’s a good man that he turns and catches Han instead of leaving him to fall and make a fool of himself.

“I _told_ you to rest,” he grumbles, moving Han back over to the bunk with more strength than Han would have guessed he had, and Han’s not fool enough to not know a good thing when he sees it, so he cooperates, getting a good solid grip on Luke’s arm before Luke can bolt again.

“I was just teasin’ you, kid,” he says. “C’mon. Just want to know what I missed, that’s all.”

Luke hesitates for just a moment before pulling away, but he doesn’t leave, settling at arm’s reach in the chair at the center of Han’s quarters, and the compromise of having him stick around is worth losing the closeness of him sitting on the edge of the bunk, so Han lets it go without complaint.

“Do you remember the cantina?” Luke says, crossing his legs.

 _The one on Tatooine?_ almost makes it out of Han’s mouth, but he stops himself and says instead: “Yeah. Would’a called that a pub, but yeah, of course I remember it. Hasn’t been _that_ long I was out, y’know.”

“No, but the drug you were given can cause memory loss and confusion,” Luke returns, _“if_ we’re right about what you got. We’re guessing, really.”

Han shrugs. “I don’t think I’m confused,” he says. He leaves out a quip about how he’s confused about a short guy like Luke going up against a full-grown battle-veteran wookiee, but it takes effort. He shifts a little, watching Luke watch him, again with the not-blinking expression he wears whenever he’s nervous about a situation. Sighs when Luke doesn’t continue his story. “Would a drink help?” he says. “I’ve got some good --”

 _“No,”_ Luke says, forcefully enough that Han quiets immediately, arching an eyebrow at him. “I don’t think drinking’s a good idea for me.”

Han rolls his eyes. “I’ve done far worse after a night drinking than you did tonight, kid,” he says. “Chewie could tell you some stories that’d make your pretty blonde head go snow white with shock. At this point, I’m pretty sure he’d rather I threaten him with a weapon than throw up on him. Claims he can’t get the smell out in a sonic shower, and honestly I’m inclined to believe him after the way the stench from the trash compactor on the _Death Star_ stuck around on him. You notice that? He smelled like a --”

 _“Han,”_ Luke says, the faintest glimmer of weary amusement lighting his eyes, which is enough to stop Han’s rambling. He treats Luke to a wolfish grin and waves his hand in a dismissive gesture.

“Point being,” he says, “you don’t have to make any sweeping life changes just ‘cause you tussled with Chewie after havin’ a drink tonight. Hell, that wasn’t even enough of a drink to get you tipsy. Didn’t even finish it.”

“No,” Luke says softly, his earlier amusement cooling instantly, “you finished my drink for me.”

And there’s something in his tone, in his body language -- the hunched, defensive affect Han had assumed was little more than the shame of picking (and losing) a fight with Chewbacca, of getting caught trying (and failing) to Jedi down a locked cargo hold door -- that comes together like a completed circuit, sparks of realization showering the flurry of thoughts and questions crowding Han’s drug-heavy brain.

“The Twi’lek,” he all but growls. “The bastard tried to drug you, didn’t he. Got me instead.”

Luke nods. “That’s what I think,” he says. “I wanted to go back and find out for sure, but Chewbacca needed to stay with you and didn’t want me going alone. That’s what you saw us arguing about.”

 _Arguing_ isn’t the term Han would use for what he saw on the feeds, but he leaves that alone in favor of scoffing and shaking his head. “‘Cause he saw you almost get yourself killed just walking into a bar a year ago, kid,” he says. “I wouldn’t’a let you go either, if I’d had my wits about me at the time.”

“I can handle myself,” Luke says, “and I don’t need your _permission_ to do anything, anyway.”

“That what you told Chewie?” Han drawls.

Luke glares at him. “More or less.”

“Ha. No wonder he locked you up. Doesn’t like gettin’ sassed.”

“I didn’t _sass_ him,” Luke says, drawing himself up to his full height, which isn’t terribly impressive, even with Han slouched as he is in bed. “I told him I wasn’t going to go pick a fight with anyone. I just wanted to confirm that the Twi’lek was the one who drugged you. Maybe find out what you’d been drugged with. I can do that, you know. With the Force.”

“You were goin’ back to that pub by yourself,” Han says. “I’d be willing to bet that’s what Chewie objected to. He knows as well as I do that nobody ever wants to ‘just be sure’ they know who’s wronged ‘em. Temptation to get revenge -- or try to, anyway -- is more’n most sentients can handle.”

Luke looks away, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “I’m not like most sentients,” he says.

“Nah, you’re more impetuous, reckless, and stubborn than most,” Han agrees. He rolls his eyes when Luke glares at him, mouth open with an objection Han’s thoroughly disinterested in hearing. “‘S what I like about you, y’know. Long as it’s not gettin’ you killed.”

He gets more of Luke’s glare for his troubles, but Luke doesn’t bolt, at least, crossing his arms over his chest. “I wasn’t going to get into trouble,” he says, “or try to get revenge or anything. Hurting or confronting the Twi’lek wouldn’t do you any good. The damage was already done.”

Han shrugs. “Didn’t say it would. Just you’re not always the best at lookin’ out for your own skin, is all. You’ve got the self-preservation instinct of a herd’a zelfmoord rodents.” He rolls his eyes when Luke looks at him blankly and sighs through his nose. “Little rodents that move around in groups, tend to fall off sharp cliff-faces when their numbers’re too big. Doesn’t matter. My point is --”

“I could sense he was up to something and I didn’t stop him,” Luke interrupts, his voice raised, warm with enough temper that Han shuts up. “I knew it wasn’t anything violent, not immediately anyway. I can _tell_ when it’s violence. _You_ knew what he was after, you even warned me, and I didn’t listen, I didn’t --”

“I didn’t warn you about _shit,_ Luke,” Han corrects him. “Sure I knew he had his eye on you, but I thought he was just interested in takin’ you back to his ship for a fuck. Hell, half the sentients in that pub probably had thoughts about spendin’ a night with you. I didn’t think the bastard would try to drug you. You think I’d’ve just glared him away from you if I’d known that’s what he had in mind?”

“No, but --”

“I mean, hell, _I_ was thinkin’ about bringing you back here and gettin’ you in my bed,” Han says, “before I decided to take a nap on the street, anyway.”

Luke’s face goes very pink. “I could tell,” he says.

He doesn’t elaborate on how that all would have worked out for Han, had Han not been drugged, and Han knows better than to ask, his nerves still too raw for him to want to deal with a rejection or (worse) knowing that Luke would have gone to bed with him if he hadn’t passed out and vomited all over himself, so he says instead, “Probably better he drugged me instead’a you, honestly. From the way it knocked me out, he must’a put a helluva dose in your drink. Wouldn’t want to see what that’d do to someone your size.” He snorts. “Wouldn’t want to see Chewie’s reaction if you’d gotten drugged or snagged, either. He was gentle with you ‘cause he likes you. Would’a torn through that Twi’lek like tissue paper if you’d gotten hurt.”

“He didn’t for you,” Luke says.

“He likes you more’n he likes me,” Han says, “and he’s seen me drugged before. He knew I’d be okay.”

Luke shakes his head. “I should have stopped it,” he says.

“Yeah, and you should’a saved the galaxy single-handedly while you’re at it,” Han says, rolling his eyes. He wraps his hand around Luke’s wrist, squeezes hard enough to get Luke’s attention. “Look, kid. The way the galaxy works, you’ll probably get the chance to save my skin, sooner or later. Never a shortage of bad hangin’ around, especially in the places we’re goin’ for your rebellion, so there’ll always be plenty of opportunities for guys like you to be a hero.” He squeezes Luke’s wrist again. “Just don’t get yourself killed tryin’ to save me, all right? I ain’t worth that.”

Luke looks down at Han’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, then up to meet Han’s gaze. “I won’t get killed,” he says.

He hesitates before he leaves, shaking his head and ordering Han to rest when Han asks what’s bothering him, an order Han is frankly tired of hearing, for all that his entire body feels like it’s been thrown through an asteroid field and could probably use the rest everyone keeps telling him he should get. He rolls onto his side once the door to his quarters has slid shut behind Luke, his stomach protesting weakly as he settles into a comfortable position. The feed from the medi-bay is running still, the light from the viewscreen reflected off the far wall of his quarters bright enough to make his eyes hurt, and where he has the supremely lazy impulse to call Luke back and ask him to shut off the monitor for him, his pride compels him from his bed, a grumbled curse on his tongue as he reaches out to punch the monitor button, the motion aborted by the blinking indicator of movement in the main cargo hold.

“What now,” he mutters under his breath, poking at the controls to pull up the feed from the hold. He’s expecting a shifted crate or slinking pest of some sort to go darting past the surveillance camera, maybe even Luke going back for another go at the door-lock, nothing pleasant but no emergency. He _isn’t_ expecting to see Chewbacca standing guard over a bound and bloodied Twi’lek, Luke standing just a few feet from him, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares the Twi’lek down, his lightsaber conspicuously absent, a blaster in its place, the holster unsnapped already.

Han’s out of his quarters and storming down the corridor to the hold before he’s had a chance to actually process a single coherent thought, only pausing long enough to yank one of the spare blasters he keeps stowed throughout the ship from its hiding place, sets the thing for stun because nothing good ever came of spilling blood unnecessarily on his ship. The hold door’s locked when he gets to it, his hand shaking badly enough with temper and remnants of the drug in his system that it takes him three tries to punch in his override code correctly, which means Chewbacca and Luke both know he’s there when he steps inside, Luke standing between the door and the Twi’lek, Chewbacca standing close at the Twi’lek’s side, bowcaster pressed threateningly against the Twi’lek’s shoulder, but Han doesn’t care about the lack of surprise surrounding his entrance, his temper boiling hot and his stomach threatening to come up his throat.

“What in the seven hells’a Moraband is going on,” he demands, his voice loud in the confines of the hold.

Chewbacca informs him that it’s an intel-gathering session to which Han was _not_ invited, each growled word dripping with condescension and sarcasm. Luke’s not any more help, his tone placating as he says, “We’re just asking him some questions. He’ll be free to go once we’re done.” His index finger twitches against the butt of his blaster. “Unharmed,” he adds. Chewbacca adds his opinion that it’s more than the bastard deserves, and beside him, the Twi’lek shifts, his teeth bared in an expression of pain, wincing when the barrel of the bowcaster slips against his skin.

“How’d that trash get on my ship?” Han wants to know.

“Chewbacca went back to the cantina while I was looking after you,” Luke tells him. “He found the prisoner leaving the cantina. He’d drugged a Durosian from the gambling table and was taking him back to his ship. Chewbacca intervened and brought him here.” He shifts, resting his palm against the butt of his blaster. “I was waiting to come down to find out what he knows until I was sure you were okay to be alone. We thought you’d be resting.”

Han narrows his eyes at Luke, then at Chewbacca. “And you were okay, goin’ along with this,” he says to his first mate.

Chewbacca shrugs and nudges the barrel of his bowcaster harder into the Twi’lek’s shoulder, growling something about Luke offering a more humane effort at getting information than he’d’ve done, were it left to him to find out what the Twi’lek knows. Han reminds him that the _Falcon_ isn’t the place for taking or torturing prisoners, even ones as disgusting at the Twi’lek seated before him, Luke’s eyes going a bit wide at his words, Chewbacca’s Shyriiwook lost on him, still.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Luke says. “I just want to see what he knows.”

“Well get on with it, then,” Han says. “Don’t want him stinkin’ up my ship any longer than he has to.”

Luke nods and turns his back to Han, which is either a statement of how much he trusts Han or yet another display of how little self-preservation instinct he has, and stretches out his hand, which takes it off his blaster, at least, his fingertips hovering mere inches from the Twi’lek’s face. Not the best position for them, in Han’s opinion, memories surfacing of horror stories he’s heard about the damage a Twi’lek’s pointed teeth can do, but he figures the chances of the Twi’lek trying anything while Chewbacca’s got him at point-blank range are pretty low, so he leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, working through the lecture he’ll give Luke when Luke’s Jedi powers fail for the second time that night. It’s a good exercise, gives his temper somewhere to go without the need for him to do or say anything that’ll provide Luke with the chance to say he was distracted, give him an out to explain away his inevitable failure, but Luke drops his hand to his side and turns to look at Han after only a few seconds, enough fury in his eyes to make Han’s blood run cold, his words drying up in his mouth.

“He’s working for an organics dealer,” Luke says. “Gathering organs that can make money on the Outer Rim markets. The drug he gave you has no damaging effect on a wide range of species’ systems, so it’s ideal for capturing and incapacitating prey for processing. I was his fourth target of the night. He has three others already stored. One accomplice. He had word from his accomplice an hour ago that processing had started, so we’re probably too late to save the others.”

Han swears under his breath. “Any idea where they are?” he says.

Luke shakes his head. “He’s keeping that information guarded. I don’t think I can pull it from him.”

“Well, Chewie’n I can probably manage that,” Han says, darting a glance at Chewbacca, who bares his teeth and makes a low sound so threatening that Han isn’t at all surprised to see the Twi’lek go white as death, curling away from Chewbacca as much as he can, which isn’t terribly far. “Unless he wants to just tell us. Could save us all a lotta time and grief if he does. Save us the hours’a clean-up afterwards, too.”

He’s mostly bluffing, but he’s encountered few sentients who weren’t easily swayed into cooperating with Chewbacca around, so it works, the Twi’lek providing them the location of his ship without much more prompting, his voice high and brittle with fear, braintails twitching nervously as Han communicates the situation and coordinates of the Twi’lek’s operation over a channel he’s fairly certain the local authorities monitor. He pulls his blaster out of the waistband of his trousers once that’s done, rubs at an imaginary streak of grease on the barrel as he returns to his spot in front of the Twi’lek, considering him as he does.

“Can’t have ‘em coming to my ship to pick you up,” he says, making a show of switching his blaster to its lethal setting, “and can’t have you runnin’ off to pick up where you left off. Can’t risk gettin’ caught up in the mess you’ve made by takin’ you in to the authorities ourselves, either. Now you don’t look all that smart to me, but I think you can probably see what option we have left, here.”

Chewbacca growls his assent, offering to do it himself, eager as always to mete out justice against traffickers, his mother-hen complex as strong as ever, compelling him to protect Han from what he still thinks Han’s human values will object to. Han opens his mouth to remind the wookiee _again_ that he has no problem with ridding the galaxy of trash, but Luke interrupts him, touching him on the elbow and saying Han’s name.

“Let me try something,” he says. A muscle in his jaw twitches when Han looks at him, eyebrow raised. “Please,” he adds.

Han shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “Do your worst.”

Which Luke doesn’t do, unsurprisingly, his Force religion as disinterested in giving Han what he wants as the rest of the universe generally seems to be. Luke simply stretches out his hand once again and closes his eyes, deathly still and silent for half a minute before the Twi’lek mirrors him, all of the fear disappearing from his posture, his eyes going unfocused. He’s awake and conscious, though, responds in the affirmative when Luke starts telling him that organ trafficking is wrong, that life is sacred. That laws are in place for a reason and should be obeyed, even if there’s no one around to enforce them.

“You’ll offer service in exchange for safe transport off this world,” Luke says, “and you will protect those who cannot protect themselves against threats greater than their defenses.”

The Twi’lek echoes him, creepily compliant, blinking calmly at Han when he opens his eyes, looking up at Chewbacca like he’s seeing him for the first time. He looks to be completely at-ease with the situation, holding still as Luke releases him from his restraints and not bolting from the hold the minute he’s on his feet, instead calmly following Luke to the exit hatch, nodding in farewell before descending the gangplank, his dark garments melting into the bleary light of the spaceport within seconds of his departure.

“Neat trick you did back there,” Han says, once he’s sure the slippery bastard’s well out of earshot and not coming back for a second go.

“I saw Ben do it once,” Luke says. “Back on Tatooine. We’d been stopped, and he just --” He waves his hand as if swatting an insect. “Saved us. They just believed what he told them to believe and they let us go.” He steps back, his hand slipping from the butt of his blaster as Han closes the hatch. He looks tired, weary. Old, somehow. “I wasn’t sure it was going to work. Hope I did it right.”

Han shrugs. “I won’t mind blastin’ him if it didn’t work,” he says. “Won’t matter if it worked or not, anyway. If he goes back to trafficking or joins a group’a do-gooders and spends the rest of his life tryin’ to save the galaxy from itself, it won’t matter. There’s plenty more where he came from, and plenty’a creatures stronger than him that love to collect up bitter weaklings like him, puttin’ ‘em to work on work even worse’n what he’s up to.” He nudges his elbow against Luke’s arm. “Nothin’ for us to worry about tonight. If you’re lookin’ for something to keep you up at night, we’ve got the Galactic Empire mad at us. I’d worry about them, if I were you.”

Luke looks at him. “I am,” he says. “Worried about the Empire.”

“Got a stash of liquor in my quarters, if you’d like a shot,” Han says, “good for taming fears, keepin’ the nightmares away.”

“I’m not,” Luke says immediately, but the fire burns itself out fast enough, leaving him to sag once again at Han’s side. He looks at Han sidelong, frowning. “You should be resting.”

“Same for you,” Han says, reaching out to wrap his hand around Luke’s forearm. “Been a busy night for you, savin’ my ass and being the big bad Jedi.”

“I’m not --”

“There’s room for you in my bunk, y’know,” Han interrupts, “if you want to make sure I _actually_ rest instead’a spying on you and Chewie for the rest of the night. Might be tempted to, after this stunt. Probably not a bad idea for you to come back with me, make me behave.”

Chewbacca growls judgment at Han’s lack of subtlety as he passes by, nudging Han harder than Han thinks he should be nudged, considering the night he’s had. And where Chewbacca’s criticisms aren’t entirely off the mark, Han’s lack of subtlety _does_ get him what he wants, Luke promising to come by after he’s retrieved his lightsaber from his bunk. He makes good on that promise, too, showing up at Han’s door before Han’s had the chance to do much other than put his blaster back where he’d had it stowed and strip out of his trousers, drink a pouch of water. The way Luke looks at him, going pink over Han’s lack of clothing as if he’d not seen the man in full undress twice already that evening, makes Han feel underdressed, so Han closes the door behind him and gets right up in Luke’s personal space, tugging at the fasteners of his coveralls straight away.

“Don’t make me drug you just to get you in my bed, Luke,” he says as he works, trying for a wolfish grin. Luke frowns at him, reaching up to cover Han’s hands with his own.

“That’s not funny, Han,” he says, his voice soft, tired.

“Side effect of the drugs, they’re dulling my usual wit,” Han says, pulling his hands free of Luke’s grip to open the younger man’s coveralls completely. Luke’s wearing an undershirt underneath this time, the thin material obscuring the bruises Han would bet good credits have fully darkened against Luke’s pale skin. He pushes the coveralls off of Luke’s shoulders, pleased when the weight of Luke’s lightsaber helps pull them down further. “Sleep it off with me,” he says. “I promise I’ll be funnier in the morning. _And_ I’ll leave all your parts where they belong while you’re sleeping. Won’t sell a single one.”

“Still not funny,” Luke says, but he steps out of his coveralls and lets Han pull him into bed all the same, curling up on his side with his back to Han, probably trying not to take up too much room. And since Han’s not gotten where he’s gotten in life by ignoring opportunities when they present themselves to him, he curls his body around Luke’s back straight away, draping his arm over the younger man’s belly, his hand resting close enough to Luke’s chest to feel the elevated thump of Luke’s heartbeat. He half-expects Luke to push him away, but Luke stays still, his breathing even and measured.

“Thanks for lookin’ out for me, kid,” Han says after a minute, when sleep starts to pull at him, hard. It relents a little when he feels Luke’s muscles tense and shift, Luke’s hand curling around his in a loose embrace.

“Anytime,” Luke says, and Han falls asleep smiling into his hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s musings  
Oops I wrote something kind of depressing.

I’ve had two experiences caring for victims of date-rape druggings in my life: one, a young lady on my study abroad program back in the early aughts, and the second my very own partner back when we were in graduate school. Both times were positively _terrifying_ and left me wanting desperately to kill the person who’d done the drugging. They were, of course, long gone by the time I was free to take any action, so they got away with it, and probably went on to drug others. Makes me want to cry and hit things, even to this day. Ugh.

Slightly less depressingly, it is noteworthy here that I may or may not have been watching behind-the-scenes stuff from the filming of the orig-trig lately, and that may or may not have inspired Luke’s characterization in this story. I’d wondered when I first discovered _Star Wars_ why they’d picked a 27-year-old to play a 19-year-old (I mean, other than the fact that they needed someone unfairly gorgeous to play Luke and Mark Hamill’s name shows up in the dictionary under “unfairly gorgeous” as the first entry, true story, look it up). My suspicion now is that -- aside from the fact that he’s a precious cupcake -- they picked him because he’s kind of a brat in real life, from back in the 70s when filming first started up through the very present. He’s got this tendency to shoot his voice up into its upper register whenever he’s feeling a strong emotion and it’s very _Luke,_ even when he’s being himself, not Luke. It fits everyone’s favorite little Jedi brat gorgeously and just makes my adoration of Hamill go even deeper _which it did not need to do, thank you._

Little brat trying to be the big bad savior of the swaggering space pirate, d’aww. And then it turned into date-rape drugging and organ trafficking. Less d’aww. Oops.

I’ve been working on this monstrosity since late July, and it didn’t come easy, so I’m approaching a second installment with clammy palms and a deep trepidation. I had no intention when I first wrote this of it being more than a one-off, didn’t even intend for it to be this at all (I _wanted_ some hurt/comfort with a nice gentle sex-scene at the end, look how well _that_ worked out for me), but then it happened and I really, _really_ want to expand on What Happens Next, so let’s all just cross our fingers and hope for the best.

And completely unrelated, some serious issues in my professional life are slowly but surely coming to the fore, and it’s tearing me apart. Any good vibes you can send me would be greatly, deeply appreciated. I don’t know any of you here personally, but I am grateful for your presence, and for the escape you facilitate for me by reading my fanfiction. <3


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